


like hellfire

by etoilette



Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Branding, Burnplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoilette/pseuds/etoilette
Summary: Day #26 of Kinktober: Burnplay"That's right," he says instead, eyeing the brand warily. Even when it's been taken off the heat for a few minutes now, the bright red doesn't fade away. "Depending on how much of my crimes can be proven in a court of law, anyway."Akira shakes his head. "I won't see you for a long time, probably. Weeks, months, years even...How will people know that you're mine?"
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949695
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	like hellfire

When Akira invited Akechi back to Leblanc after a trip to Maruki's Palace, Akechi didn't expect much. Well, he expected a coffee, of course, but other than that, he expected that the two of them would spend the time chatting quietly, or maybe indulging in a few rounds of chess. Despite their loud synergy in battle, Akira and Akechi are both people who prefer to spend their off-time quietly, like cats napping after successful kills.

Never in his life had Akechi imagined that as soon as the two of them crossed the threshold into the cafe, Akira would grab his wrist and drag him, kicking and protesting, up to the attic.

"What are you _doing_ , Akira?!" Akechi yelled. He twisted his wrist out of Akira's grip. In the bare skin between the glove and his jacket, he can already see a faint ring of bruises forming. He clutches at the wrist with his other hand — no sprain or broken bones, thankfully. He would shoot Akira in the head for real if Akechi gets his wrist fucked up for no good reason right now, while they're battling for their freedom from yet another maniac with a god complex.

Akira reaches out for him again and Akechi pulls back, lowering his body. It's been a while since he's been involved in a brawl outside of the Metaverse, but he knows he can take Akira, who is all gangly limbs and awkward posturing when he isn't Joker. Reality isn't like Mementos or a Palace, and he doubts that Akira has any sort of combat prowess without his cognition helping things along.

But Akira raises his hands up in the universal sign of surrender, his eyes wide behind his glasses. If Morgana were to come home right now from wherever he is, he would no doubt think that Akechi's the aggressor, violently and unfairly taking out frustrations onto poor harmless Akira.

"I just want to see," Akira says plaintively. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough."

Akechi squints at him. He looks genuinely abashed, like he legitimately hadn't meant to hurt Akechi in any way with the rough treatment. Maybe he just got impatient and lost control of his strength? That doesn't sound like Akira, but ever since they reunited in the beginning of the new year, he's been a little off. Just a hint too quiet, standing a smidgeon too close at times. It's nothing, of course, but it was enough to catch on the periphery of Akechi's attention.

Does he...? He's certainly smart enough to piece everything together. It would be just like him to get all sentimental over the idea of his rival being a ghost, as stupid as it sounds.

Akechi relaxes his shoulders and holds out his arm. If seeing the bruises will calm Akira down and allow Akechi to leave before the trains stop, then he'll gladly allow him prod and poke at Akechi's skin for as long as he likes.

Akira reaches out and cradles Akechi's hand carefully, brushing the glove and sleeve away to get a better look at the red-purplish skin. His bare fingers stroke against the thin skin on Akechi's wrist, as light and soft as a feather, and he can't control the shiver that crawls up his spine. The minute stimulation of Akira's fingernail scraping against the sensitive bruises makes Akechi pull in a shuddering breath, but it's like Akira doesn't even notice. He won't stop rubbing at the skin, getting his fingers all over him, tracing the hurt and even pushing his hand further up Akechi's sleeve, as if he's trying to worm his way inside of the jacket.

Enough.

Akechi shakes him off and glares. "Well? Are you satisfied?"

For a moment, Akira just stares at his empty hand, like a dog who didn't realize that his owner never actually threw a ball. But he relaxes again, his entire body melting back into its bad posture, and he starts to fiddle with his bangs. It's a nervous habit that Akechi remembers him doing all the time when they first started hanging out together back in June. But ever since he started coming into his own as the leader of the Phantom Thieves, around August, he had stopped.

Why is that? When did he start it up again? If Akechi was given some time he could probably figure it out but —

"Yeah," Akira says. "Sorry. I just got a little overzealous. Did you want some coffee before you go home?"

"Yes," Akechi nods warily. "That was the reason why I even followed you here after we left the Metaverse."

"It wasn't for my charming company?" Akira asks, throwing him a cheeky grin when he brushes past him towards the stairs.

Akechi scoffs instead of answering and watches him descend. His heart is still pounding in his chest, alarm bells blaring inside of his head. Why did Akira even drag him upstairs in the first place? Now that he thinks about it, Akira had been oddly insistent that Morgana spend his night elsewhere (ah, yes, he remembers now — the cat had been bundled up in Okumura's fluffy winter coat and she had promised him Ginza sushi).

It's pointless to think about it. Akira would tell him any concerns. He's an open book compared to people like Shido or himself. Akechi shakes his head to dislodge his doubts and walks down the stairs.

"Took you long enough," Akira says, smiling over at Akechi. There are already two cups of coffee ready — one in Akira's hand and the other in front of Akechi's usual chair. "I'm warming up a pot of curry too, if you get hungry later."

"Sorry, I ate before we went to the Palace," Akechi says curtly, sitting himself down at the counter. "You brewed the coffee fast today."

"Do I usually take a long time?" Akira asks, sipping from his cup.

It's embarrassing that Akechi doesn't really know. For all that he prides himself on his observational skills, he's never actually watched Akira brew coffee outside of vaguely noticing when his awkward actions became smooth and practiced. He's usually poring over his paperwork and novels whenever he drops by Leblanc.

Instead of answering, he tilts the coffee into his mouth. It's hot, of course, but not scalding to the point that he would burn himself. No matter his personal opinion on Akira, he can freely admit that Akira truly understands him and his taste when it comes to coffee. It's sweet, with a faint edge of bitterness, and there is an underlying current of dark chocolate that never fails to put a smile onto Akechi's face.

When he sets the cup back down on the counter, he's already in a much better mood.

"You take long enough that I'm bored out of my mind by the time I get to drink anything," Akechi replies cheerily, flashing Akira a celebrity smile. "I'm glad that I don't have to put up with your asinine conversation today before I get my treat."

The smile on Akira's face is so bright that it melts away the false one on Akechi's. "I'm glad that you enjoy talking to me!" he says. Even under Leblanc's dim lighting, Akechi can see the blush that mars his pale cheeks, and the alarm bells that had been silenced after the incident in the attic flares back to life.

There's something wrong with him. The instinct that had guided Akechi and allowed him to survive for over seventeen years is urging him to run, practically pushing him out of the door.

He takes another drink from the cup, draining half of it in one pull. It's no time to savour the beans, no matter how good the taste is. "I'm not quite sure what you mean," he says coldly.

If Akira noticed the change in Akechi's mood, he makes no comment. Instead, he blabs on, "I mean, you're bored when I'm making coffee, right? I know that I tend to go silent whenever I concentrate. I'm so sorry about that, Akechi. I never mean to bore you, but to hear that you're that desperate for my company...ha, I don't know. I'm just so happy."

Akechi stares at him, sure that he must have the most stupidly flabbergasted expression on his face. Akira simply smiles back, tilting his head to the side in an unspoken question.

"Right," Akechi says. "Of course."

He makes to drain his cup and leave, but when he tries to pick up the cup, he can't. He furrows his brow in confusion. It's not as if Akechi's paralyzed or anything, but it's more like every single one of his muscles had atrophied in the span of a minute. He can curl his fingers around the handle of the cup, but he can't put in enough strength to grip it, let alone raise it.

The alarm bells are deafening in his ears now. Akechi tries to push himself off the chair — if he can at least get outside of Leblanc, he can flag down someone to help him. He's no longer as famous as he was prior to December — no doubt Maruki's doing — and he won't need to worry about invasive questions or pictures uploaded onto SNS. He doesn't know how much of Maruki's magic has affected Yongen-Jaya's impression of Akira, but if he's still considered "the delinquent lodging in Leblanc's attic" then he should be able to —

But it's like his legs are jelly. He collapses onto the ground, his knees too shaky to hold his weight up, let alone carry him to the safety of outside. If he hadn't thrown his upper body onto the seat of the chair in a last-ditch effort to keep himself standing, then he surely would have face-planted onto the wooden floor of the cafe.

"Wha—" Akechi starts. There's nothing wrong with his senses — he can see and hear everything just fine. Nothing dances in his vision, and he doesn't feel woozy at all. For all matters and purposes, he's completely alright. But whenever he tries to get his muscles to cooperate, it's like the signals his brain is trying to send is muffled through a wall.

He has been able to traverse the Metaverse since he was sixteen. He exercises on the daily, even if his nutrition is a little bit unbalanced. There's nothing he can't get his body to do, whether it's in reality or in the world of cognition. For the first time, he feels fear itch into his consciousness at just how helpless he feels, sitting in a place that was meant to be a sanctuary. He can't even get a steady grip on the chair, let alone push himself up to his feet.

"Are you feeling alright, Akechi?" Akira asks. His voice sounds distant and Akechi realizes that he had been in the kitchen rather than behind the counter. He's rattling with a pot, as if he thinks curry would help in this situation.

Except when he fully emerges from the kitchen, he's holding in a gloved hand a pair of tongs, and clutched between the tongs there is a —

With the last of his strength, Akechi pushes himself off the chair, collapsing to the ground. Even if he can't stand, he can crawl, probably. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous, so long as he can get outside, away from this maniac. Akira probably won't try to do anything with that red-hot metal brand if they're outside.

From this distance, he can't see what the shape of it is. He recognizes it from the colour, and he thinks he maybe sees a pair of wings, but nothing definitive.

"Akechi, if you're not feeling well, you should have stayed upstairs" Akira says, mock concern heavy in his voice. "I can't help you up with only one hand so we'll have to do it down here."

"We don't need to do anything," Akechi snarls. "What did you put in the coffee, you maniac?"

"Nothing much," Akira replies cheerily. He circles around the counter, strolling up towards where Akechi is splayed on the ground, as casual as can be. "I asked Takemi for some drugs and thankfully she didn't ask any questions. Haha, I almost lied and said I was having trouble going to sleep, but then she would've given me melatonin or something, and that would have been bad. I don't want you to sleep through this."

Akechi doesn't answer. He can't, really, considering how his entire effort and focus is on escape. The distance between his usual chair and the exit can normally be covered in three steps, and yet it's suddenly the hardest thing he needs to do.

"A~ke~chi~" Akira sings playfully but when he reaches out with a hand and snatches Akechi's ankle, his grip is iron. "I don't mind you playing hard-to-get but you're being kind of rude right now. I mean, I got you this gift but you didn't even ask me what it is. Come on, don't be shy."

With startling strength that Akechi has never seen him exhibit even as Joker, Akira drags Akechi back, as easy as picking up a cat.

"Let me go!" Akechi snarls. With the last of his willpower, he summons enough strength to kick Joker's hand away but the effort saps so much of his energy that for a moment, all he can do is lie there uselessly, struggling to catch his breath.

Akira tsks his tongue. "Naughty," he sighs as he looms over Akechi, staring down at him. There's nothing like frustration or anger in his eyes, even though Akechi can see the reddening bruise on the back of his hand from when Akechi kicked him. Instead, he looks tiredly affectionate, as if Akechi's a toddler throwing a tantrum at bath-time. "You weren't like this when I gave you those supplements back in August. Are you not a fan of surprises?"

"I'm not a fan of people trying to bend me to their will," Akechi snaps. "Not when it was Shido. Not when it's Maruki. Not when it's _you."_

Akira's eyes widen as he settles his full weight down on Akechi's stomach, eliciting a soft 'oof' from the older boy. He sits casually, as if Akechi's nothing more than a chair, and he rests his elbow on his knee, his face on the palm of his hand. In his other hand, he waves the tongs and brand absentmindedly.

"I'm not trying to bend you to my will or anything," he says, lying through his teeth as if Akechi is an idiot. "You came back for me but what about after we defeat Maruki, when we go back into our reality? You'll be in jail for who knows how long."

That's the best case scenario. A fantasy. If they undo the actualization, then Akechi will be...

He swallows against the dryness in his throat. If Akira hasn't figured it out by now, then he can't tell him. Not at this moment, when Akira is clearly deranged. Akechi's not scared of death, per se, but if he's going to die, he's going to die in battle. Not while he's helpless and drugged, trapped under the heavy weight of his rival.

"That's right," he says instead, eyeing the brand warily. Even when it's been taken off the heat for a few minutes now, the bright red doesn't fade away. "Depending on how much of my crimes can be proven in a court of law, anyway."

Akira shakes his head. "I won't see you for a long time, probably. Weeks, months, _years_ even...How will people know that you're mine?"

"I'm not _yours_ ," Akechi hisses.

But it's like talking to a wall. "You're the most amazing person I've ever met, and I've met so many people in Tokyo. You're so beautiful and strong and brave and smart. No one could possibly resist your charm," Akira continues, his words coming faster and faster. He bears down, a fervent glint in his eye as he stares down at Akechi in open hunger.

Akechi opens his mouth but before he can say anything to that, Akira presses his lips against it, slotting his tongue inside and entangling it with Akechi's. It's a sloppy kiss, and Akechi chokes, coughing and spluttering when Akira's saliva drips down inside his throat, getting into his windpipe. Akira's only response is an amused huff of air. The sound jumpstarts Akechi's idled brain and he starts to struggle anew.

It's like being trapped under a Slime. Even if Akechi wasn't compromised by the drug, weighing down his limbs as if they were glued to the floor, Akira anticipates every one of Akechi's movements and re-adjusts his hold.

"See?" Akira whispers, pulling away just enough that he can speak. "It's like we were made for each other."

"Fuck you," Akechi pants.

"Maybe later, if you're still feeling up for it."

Akechi snarls, wordless with his fury, but Akira slams his left hand down on his mouth, pushing his head forcefully to the side and exposing his bare neck. Akechi curses himself for taking his scarf off and shoving it into his briefcase after they left Maruki's Palace, still so high from combat that he had been overheated even in the brisk January air.

He tries to bite down on the soft flesh of Akira's palm but he can't quite get any strength thanks to whatever it was that Akira put into his coffee. His bites are as ferocious as the playful nibbles of a puppy, and Akira laughs, "That tickles, Akechi. Are you that eager to start?"

_Fuck you_ , Akechi wants to repeat, but it comes out as a warbling mmfgh noise behind Akira's hand.

"It's cooled down quite a bit so I hope I can get this right the first time," Akira says, brandishing the tongs. There's a ridiculously proud look on his face as he exclaims, "Look! It's Arsene. I designed it and made it myself, thanks to Iwai-san."

Now that Akechi has the context, he can recognize the brand, even when the image is flipped. The wings, the hat, the oddly misshapen attempt at heels...it's a fairly abstract representation of Akira's Persona.

_You've got to be kidding me_ , Akechi tries to say, but it's silenced by Akira's palm.

"Don't worry, I'll make it fast, haha," Akira continues cheerily. His breathing is uneven, and even though his face is cast in shadow from the light, Akechi can make out the hint of red colouring his cheeks. The crescent moon grin splitting his face. "It's not as if I want you to suffer, after all. I only want what's best for you."

Before Akechi could even react, Akira presses the brand hard against the exposed side of his neck, fast and immediate, as if he thinks it's the same thing as pulling off a band-aid.

Akechi's body convulses and jerks against the pain. If Akira's hand wasn't covering Akechi's mouth, then he would probably be screaming himself hoarse. As it is, the only sounds that can escape him while Akira's weight is on his entire body and face are muffled whimpers and whines. Even through Akira's hand, though, the stench of burning flesh sears Akechi's nose. The scent is the one thing tethering him to reality, keeping him grounded despite his mind's desperate attempts to dissociate from the indescribable pain.

It burns so much against the tender skin of his neck that it paradoxically freezes, and he doesn't know if the involuntary shivers running through his body are from that or from his body's feeble attempts to shake Akira off. Through the curtain of tears that have fallen in front of his vision, he can see that wide Joker's grin on Akira's face as he stares down at Akechi, as if Akechi isn't falling apart at the seams.

"Does that feel good, Akechi?" he asks excitedly. His voice is ragged, as if he's the one who's over-exerting his lungs. He moves his hips, rubbing himself on the flat planes of Akechi's stomach and chest. His movements are slow and shallow, as if it's an after-thought rather than a serious attempt at getting himself off. "How does it feel, being marked as mine?"

_I'm not yours,_ Akechi wants to say.

_It feels like shit, you idiot. What the fuck do you think?_ Akechi wants to snap.

But even if Akira isn't covering his mouth, he doubts he can get any words out. His tongue feels like a weight in his mouth, and though his brain must be working overtime just to keep up with all the sensations rushing through his body, it takes all of his energy just to piece together his indignant fury.

The brand burns so bright against Akechi's skin that it's as if everything else inside of him is turning into ash. Until the only things he knows are pain and heat, and Akira's scent and weight.

He doesn't realize the brand was taken away at same point until he hears the distant clang of the tong as it hits the floor. Akira removes his hand away from Akechi's mouth and peers down, licking frantically at Akechi's chin and cheeks, swallowing down the drool that must have gotten smeared onto Akechi's face from Akira's hand.

"Mine," he says, as if the pulsing pain against Akechi's neck wasn't enough. Akechi tries to move his head away but Akira simply holds him in place with a hand on the side of his jaw. It's a punishing grip, and Akechi isn't so oblivious that he misses the threat of further pain should Akechi force himself out of Akira's hand. "Mine, mine, mine, all mine. I won't let you out of my sight again, Akechi. As long as Arsene is with you, then everyone will know who you belong to."

Akira presses his tongue against the raw wound on Akechi's neck, his firm hand keeping Akechi's head in place. Despite Akechi's protesting hiss and weak struggles, Akira doesn't stop licking and prodding at the wound, as if trying to soak the skin with his saliva. Through the pain, Akechi can feel warmth drip down his neck and pool against the back of his head, but with Akira's hair in the way, he doesn't know if it's Akira's spit or his blood.

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially the same premise as my noncon creampie fic earlier in Kinktober except using a different kink, I realize now.


End file.
